Trust
by Mornen
Summary: "Thus the wise were troubled, but none as yet perceived that Curunír had turned to dark thoughts and was already a traitor in heart: for he desired that he and no other should find the Great Ring, so that he might wield it himself and order all the world to his will." - J.R.R. Tolkien. A dark tale of what happens when what could have been becomes what is. Beta: CrackinAndProudOfIt


I have now unjustly borrowed the world and characters that Tolkien created to answer a question that I have often pondered: Saruman desired the Ring, what would have happened if he had acquired it? My sincerest apologies to J.R.R. Tolkien for this story.

* * *

_Then the white council was summoned; and Mithrandir urged them to swift deeds, but Curunír spoke against him, and counselled them to wait yet and to watch. _

'_For I believe not,' said he, 'that the one will ever be found again in Middle-earth. Into Anduin it fell, and long ago, I deem, it was rolled into the Sea. There it shall lie until the end, when all this world is broken and the deeps are removed.'_

_Therefore naught was done at that time, although Elrond's heart misgave him, and he said to Mithrandir: 'Nonetheless I forebode that the One will yet be found, and then war will arise again, and in that war this Age will be ended. Indeed in a second darkness it will end, unless some strange chance deliver us that my eyes cannot see.'_

'_Many are the strange chances of the world,' said Mithrandir, 'and help oft shall come from the hands of the weak when the wise falter.'_

_Thus the wise were troubled, but none as yet perceived that Curun__í__r had turned to dark thoughts and was already a traitor in heart: for he desired that he and no other should find the Great Ring, so that he might wield it himself and order all the world to his will. Too long he had studied the ways of Sauron in hope to defeat him, and now he envied him as a rival rather than hated his works._ – J.R.R. Tolkien, _The Silmarillion_

* * *

_Rivendell, Winter 2851_

__-0-

They fell like the ash from the mountain, crumpled grey forms lying wasted in the bloody mire of the battlefield. Even in the dim light, the despair could be seen on their torn faces. Their eyes stared wide at the unreachable sky above. There were so many, the wounded, the dead, and the craven lying as comrades on the ground.

Elrond sped amongst the broken bodies at his feet, their fading cries echoing unceasingly in his ears. He raised his sword, the sharp edge pulling hard through the leather sleeve of a sneering orc. There was a sharp crack as the bone broke, and the orc let out a pained scream. Again he raised his sword, streaming with black blood, and plunged it through the orc's convulsing neck. Its hideous face twisted with hatred or perhaps fear, and then it crumpled in a retching heap to the ground.

He drew the blade free and ran on, smoke and soot burning his lungs and face. Slipping, his foot came down hard on the severed head of a young Man. It broke through the cracked skull, and he lost his balance, sprawling helplessly for a moment, hidden among the carnage. A mass of grey clouds drifted peacefully above him, plummeting and billowing over each other, covering the sky, but he felt no peace. The din of the battle would not leave him; he could feel its rage in the trembling earth. He pushed himself to his feet, crying out momentarily as his hand fell through the soft, warm innards of a dead Elf, torn open by a cruel blade. Fine golden hair lay in a bloody mess over the fair face; green eyes stared up in frozen fear at the dancing clouds. He took a horrified step backwards and turned away, but there was nowhere to clean his hand.

Gasping for breath he went on, the blade in his hand slicing again and again at the mutilated bodies of the advancing foe. He could listen to the rhythm of the war, dance to the song of massacre and survival, sway lithely to the commanding music of striking steel and singing arrows. He could lose himself in the blood burning anger of comrades slain and friends taken, in the all-consuming desire for revenge. He could ignore his cuts and bruises and burning muscles, disregard the blood and sweat dripping in his eyes. He could believe the promise of justice and freedom, throw aside all fear of death and failure, and live for the moment and the glory of victory. But he could never forget.

He ran to Gil-galad's side, who stood tall and brave, his spear held aloft, shining madly, as if a star had fallen to earth and come to rest in the hand of the high king. 'Do not fear!' he cried, his voice rising clear and deep over the clamour of battle. 'For the day shall be ours!' He believed in his words, in the fight, in the war. He believed in Men and in Elves, in their strength combined, in their power to defeat their enemy, in their goodness. He believed in what happened next.

Sauron came, tall and strong, towering over Elves and Men alike. He had finally unveiled his might before them, and his terror and power surpassed all rumour. A cruel shadow of despair fell over the gathered armies, quenching the hope that they had gained with their winning battles, their great advances, and the aspiring words of their valiant captains. Now their hearts sank under the weight of Sauron's malice. His naked blade gleamed coldly in the darkness of the day, and he raised it with a bitter certainty of victory.

'Do not fear!' Gil-galad cried again, turning to face the dark foe. 'For the night is passing! Day has come! Day has come!'

As if in answer, the clouds pushed away from one another, and a pale gleam of light fell down upon him. But Orodruin coughed up another stream of thick smoke, and the sky was once more hidden behind the dark clouds.

Gil-galad did not quail at the sudden darkness; his face was set and his eyes were proud. He did not fear death; indeed, he seemed to expect it. Had he not said that this would be his last contest, and here he would fall? He stood strong, fated determination in his deep grey eyes. 'Do not fear.'

And now they stood facing Sauron: Elendil and with him Isildur, his son, Gil-galad and by him Círdan and he, and none else. And all he felt was fear. The battle was frozen, each strike and counter blow slipping slowly past, his every useless advance, his every desperate cry stretched out for harsh scrutiny. He was thrown back and hit the sloping ground hard, jarring to a stop on the filthy mountainside. Helplessly he lay, stunned, as Sauron fought on with Gil-galad. There was no time to help him. He was dead before he could stand, falling down beside him, his burnt face turned to him, his bright eyes dimmed. He wept for him, half-expecting him to leap to his feet in a burst of brilliant light, in defiance of his enemy. But he did not rise; he would not rise again.

There was soot in his mouth, mingling with the salty taste of fresh blood. He turned slowly, trying to pull himself up again. A cry rang out, echoing on the slopes of the fiery mountain and over Mordor, but he would never know whose cry it was. Elendil had fallen, but Sauron too had been cast down. And again the air was still. Around him it lay, heavy and dread, and in that moment there was nothing.

-0-

Wrenching with fear, Elrond bolted awake, clutching the dishevelled white sheets of his own bed tightly. His dark hair was falling in a wild tangle over his sweating face, and he gasped and shivered violently with the memories. 'It was all vain,' he told the empty room, drawing the blankets protectively about him. The silence gave no answer.

It was hot, unbearably hot. He cast the blankets aside and ran to the window, opening it swiftly and gulping down the cold air, his fingers gripping tightly the smooth sill.

The world lay so still outside. The stars shone soft in the winter sky, and the pale moon gleamed gently behind a fleet of fast floating white clouds; its light shimmered in the valley, reflected a thousand times on the chaste snow.

He shivered. The January night was cold, and a chill wind blew in, wrapping tightly about him, but he did not move. Instead he waited until he was no longer shaking with fear, and the sweat was dried from his pale skin, before shutting fast the tall window and stirring up the dying fire in the grate. It leapt merrily under the coaxing of the iron poker, but he stayed as far from it as he could, watching it warily as it danced in the night.

Slipping away from the fire, he settled down once again on his empty bed, studying the shifting shadows on the walls. The light of the fire cast a ruddy haze on the dark wood floor, and again on the carved ceiling it flickered, a warm orange glow. But the warmth and light brought no comfort to him; they only stirred up old memories and the tight grip of a thousand nightmares. They had all died so many times. Each soldier, each friend, crushed, sliced, and burnt over and over in his relentless dreams.

He felt his breath shudder in his throat, and ran his hands over the white sleeves of his nightgown. But his hands felt distant on his arms, as if he were not entirely there. Standing up, he pulled the gown off over his head and flung it hastily onto the bed beside him. Quickly he dressed into the warm garments he had discarded so carelessly that evening, laughing with the comfort of strong wine, and stepped out his door.

Candles on the walls burnt low in the night. The hallway was deserted. He could hear, afar off, laughter and singing filled with joy. Surreal echoes, the words rung in his ears, stirring him like the waves of his childhood home. But they could offer him no peace, for the pain was too deep. And the sting was not dulled with time.

'Elrond,' a low voice said, as rich and as warm as mulled ale. The tired scent of tobacco and worn linen enveloped him as a pair of strong hands turned him about. 'Elrond, I was told you were sleeping.'

'I was,' he answered numbly, too lost in his own raging memories to give the speaker much heed. Still he could hear the harsh clash of deadly metal and the final screams of the lost, the soft laugh of a friend as he gave him his dying kiss. _We won._

'Elrond.' A rough finger rubbing his cheek stirred him from his thoughts, and he finally turned to face Mithrandir, who stood in front of him, frowning. 'You should not think back so much. The past is gone now; there is nothing you could have done to save them.'

For a moment they both stood, neither speaking as the distant singing swelled and rolled into a laugh.

Flustered, Elrond stepped away, pulling his unlaced shirt back over his shoulder, his fingers fumbling to tie it closed. 'I did not know you were coming.'

'Neither did I, but the North gets so very cold in the winter, and Imladris was near my travels.' Mithrandir shrugged slightly, leaning against his staff. His eyes, dark as coals, bright as flames, searched Elrond's face.

He sighed. 'What travels were these, my friend? The winter brings storms that cannot be predicted, no matter how long you study the sky. You should not be about. No one travels in the north when the snow falls.'

'No one indeed?' Mithrandir shook his head. 'I suppose you think it very foolish of me.'

'Even my sons do not travel this time of the year, at least, not this far North,' he said, his voice dying on his dry lips. 'Where were you going?'

'You are tired, my friend, and worn. You should not be about.' Mithrandir lay his hand on his back and ushered him to his room. 'Do not torment yourself.' But his voice did not fit his words; it was too soft to be commanding, and too troubled to comfort.

* * *

_Isengard, Winter 2851_

-0-

_This is my body. _

Sometimes he would think of it without noticing, the words rising to his lips, where they startled him and forced him to close his mouth tighter so that would not escape, even if he were alone.

Like one afraid of discovery, he would lock his doors and disrobe himself, laying aside the white garments for which he was named. The body they hid was strong and thin, knotted in places with muscles, sharp in others with bone. The skin was pale, the eyes piercing, the hair as black as a raven, touched lightly by a silver grey. And he could feel the world in it.

The wind, sharp and bitter, felt like the breath in his throat if he had run too hard too long, as he seldom did. But he would never forget the first time that he stood in the winter, his legs aching beneath him, his face bitten by the cold, his throat and lungs raw and burning, gasping for air through the flying snow. Spinning like a drunken galaxy, the flakes had enveloped him, and he had held his white cloak tighter about him and shouted his life to the wind.

In the earth he smelt life; when the sun shone on it, it was stronger. The dirt and the mud were muscles and blood. He could smell the bodies in the soil: strong, subtle, impossible to ignore. Some despised the dirt for its scent – the smell of life – like they despised sweat, urine. It was not an easy scent. It was not fragrant. But it was alive. He loved it for that, for its pungency, for its truthfulness. He would lie in the dirt, face pressed against the soil, and just breathe it in, making silent love to the world.

In the trees he saw strength, like his arms and legs. Like the arms and legs of Men and Elves – tall, hard, and endless. There were so many trees about him; everywhere that he looked he saw them, fighting one another to reach the light of the sky. They were like the people, those many, many people, who lived and fought with each other, trying to force _something_ to acknowledge their place in the world. Always reaching higher. They were like the trees, people. So many of them: endless numbers, endless faces, endless lives that could disappear so quickly. They were like the trees, fragile.

Saruman lay down his pen. Snow was falling fast outside his window. The trees were a glistening white. He smiled and blew gently on an ink splot that marked his canvas. He looked at the window and then at the book he was transcribing.

His writing was cleaner than the old documents; his letters were more pure than the fanciful script. He liked how simple the black was against the cream. The lines he drew were sharp.

It was a history: a minor detail about the Rings of Power that was crumbling with time. He would save it. It was important to know everything about their enemy. He was the Warden of the Tower. It was his duty to know all.

* * *

Author's note: I had promised some of you (who may be reading this) that this story would come out today (quite a long time ago, actually), and so here it is.

I hope that all of you had a wonderful twelve-twelve-twelve day!

(Oh, and Crackers, if you're reading this, I'm so sorry for not sending the end of this chapter to you ahead of time, but I completely forgot too.)


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